


5 Minutes

by Xangonne



Category: Call of Cthulhu: Path of Perdition (Web Series), Internet Remix, Rolling with Remix: Masks of Nyarlathotep (Web Series)
Genre: Brief Descriptions of Injuries and Death, During Ep. 2, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:47:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27590215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xangonne/pseuds/Xangonne
Summary: “But what was there to say?Only that there were tears. Only that Quietness and Emptiness fitted together like stacked spoons."― Arundhati Roy, The God of Small ThingsorThe grief one only allows to surface in solitude.
Relationships: Disaster Gang - Relationship
Comments: 6
Kudos: 13





	5 Minutes

* * *

Compared to the bitter cold of the outside world, the lobby of the Plaza felt like a sanctuary. The investigators hurried inside, followed by an eddy of fat snowflakes that got caught on the carpet and melted there.

The five of them held on to their conversation until they were in front of one of the fireplaces. Sunil brushed the snow off of his hat, and Sybil stripped off her soft leather gloves in order to warm her fingers. James stood, tense, his arm around Sybil's shoulder. He appraised the mostly empty lobby-- the afternoon receptionist was reading a novel behind the front desk, and the few guests who passed through on the way to the bar seemed otherwise occupied. James buried his fingers into the soft fox fur of Sybil's coat and squeezed her shoulder. She leaned against him in response with a slight shiver, and he couldn't tell which it was; of anger, of cold, or of sorrow.

"Who wants to come to our room and drink?" James spoke up, looking to the rest of the group.

"Y-yeah," Mason sniffed, the tip of his nose red from the cold. "That sounds good." He stamped his feet on the rug, dislodging the last of the snow that clung to his shoes.

Kit had been gazing pensively into the fire. James's question seemed to snap him out of whatever stupor he was caught up in. "I-- I ah, need to take a moment. But I'll be there in a second."

"You gonna be alright, Kit?" James looked at him, but Kit's face was impassive. Only the hesitation in his voice belied his outward demeanor.

"Yeah. Just um." Kit looked back into the flames for a split second. "Yeah."

"Yeah."

"Thanks." Kit met James's eyes with a relieved look.

James nodded. He knew the feeling-- the drive-- of having to go to earth against one's own thoughts. Kit was strong. Reliable. He would be fine. James absent-mindedly kissed the crown of Sybil's head. Her dark hair was still damp with melting snowflakes.

Sunil caught Kit's attention as he turned to leave, and asked a wordless question-- eyes concerned. As though he were asking if he wanted to talk. If he wanted company. Or if he needed solitude.

Kit gave him a half-shrug and nodded his head to the rest of the group-- as though it was reassurance. I'll be fine. Go on with them. Go ahead.

Sunil gave a small nod, worry still plain on his face, but turned back to the rest of the group just the same. Kit turned away from them and headed to the ornate metal elevator just as Mason started talking about room service.

* * *

Kit closed the door of his room behind him, and slid the chain latch shut. He took a breath and surveyed the room-- checking the closet, the corners, the en suite bathroom, and under the bed. It was only after he completed his search that he finally relaxed, and let the key slip from where he firmly held it in his fist, point sticking out from between his knuckles. Old habits die hard, he thought with a grim smile before sitting down on the bed, but at least old habits kept him alive so far. Unlike... unlike...

He forcibly relaxed his hands and spread them flat on his thighs, then checked his pocket-watch. Five minutes. He would allow himself five minutes. Then after those five minutes were up, he would go back to being who he needed to be for everyone else; for Mason and James, for Sunil, and for Sybil.

He took a shuddering breath. The room was too large, too empty, and too alien. For a moment, he closed his eyes and imagined that he was anywhere else:

His apartment in Berlin, austere and small, but a space of his own; in a city he grew to call his own.

The Pandey home in London, comforting with the smell of warm spices; and Manisha, directing his attempts to help her in the kitchen.

His father's home in Hell's Kitchen, so familiar and yet so different; colder and more distant somehow than it had ever been before. The same man, the same kitchen table, the same chipped mug. The same awkward overtures between two men who didn't know who the other was anymore-- and perhaps never knew to begin with. The same aching silence, the same aching rift, tearing a chasm in his heart--

Kit found himself leaning forward, elbows on his knees and head in his hands, hot tears spilling from his good eye. What should have been a soft cry rattled painfully in his throat, and he choked it back-- for God's sake, he couldn't even cry normally! His bad eye welled with tears, but he could not get them to flow-- the tear ducts didn't work quite right anymore.

He stood, and stiffly made his way to the bathroom. He avoided looking at the mirror, and instead turned on the faucet and let the water run for a while. He splashed his face with it, attempting to wash away the tears, and the angry redness in his eyes.

He and James should have kicked down the door.

He remembered the look he and James exchanged in the Hotel Chelsea hallway. There had been a spark in the back of his mind all day, ever since James mentioned that Jackson had been scared-- Jackson, scared! What a thought-- on the phone. There, in front of room 410, the spark had crystallized into the tinny hum of danger; a feeling he had not felt since New Mexico, or Peru before then, or France even before that. But the two of them had stopped and stood down; Sybil gently reminding James that there were other ways of doing things, and Sunil bringing Kit back to the present.

He remembered the bellhop, coming up with the key, and then the shock on the boy's face as he opened the door. He remembered James yelling something. He remembered putting his rifle case into Sunil's hands and rushing for the bed-- the blood still bright red and seeping into the duvet. He remembered his hands, slick with blood, as he tried desperately to put Jackson back together-- thinking that if only he could stop the bleeding, if only he could close him up, if only he could-- but knowing all too well that it was too late. It had been too late for a while. He remembered coming back here, to The Plaza, to this room, and scrubbing at his hands until they were raw-- trying to get the blood out from under his fingernails. Watching the rust-red water swirl down the drain.

Kit turned the faucet off and stood there, leaning over the sink, his face dripping. With a shaking hand, he checked his watch.

His five minutes were up.

He put away his pocket-watch, dried off his face, and considered himself in the mirror. He looked into his own eyes-- hollow and tired, so very tired-- before turning out the lights and stepping back out into the hall.

* * *

There were muffled voices coming from the Cordova suite. Kit stood for a moment outside the door and listened, a bemused expression on his face.

"--we don't gotta ruin her in the process!" That was Mason.

"I'm just saying--" The softer voice was Sunil, his accent distinct even through the door.

Kit knocked, three short, sharp raps. Then after a moment, he let himself in. The door was unlocked, he noted with a frown.

"Welcome to the party, buddy... welcome to the party..." James lounged in one of the comfortable arm-chairs, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, and a flask in one hand. He looked exhausted.

"Hello Kit, we are uh--" Sunil started.

"--we're going to destroy a reporter!" Sybil sat up on the bed, her eyes red-rimmed and fierce.

"We're not gonna destroy a reporter," Mason groaned from where he sat, on the opposite end of the bed.

"Yeah, we're talking about the possibility of--" James took the cigarette out of his mouth with his flask hand, then took a swig before promptly returning the smoke to his mouth. He offered the flask out to Kit, who crossed the room and took it.

"--we're going to speak to a reporter," Sunil finished.

James took a drag on his cigarette, and turned away from Kit to exhale. "Yes."

Kit took a drink from the flask, the whiskey going down smoothly. He capped it and held it out to Sunil, to pass it around the room. Kit squared his shoulders. He had had his five minutes. "So. How does everyone else feel about that?"


End file.
